


Gift for a Sea King

by Entropyrose



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Consentacles, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consentacles, M/M, Plot What Plot, Tentacle Dick, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Sex, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose
Summary: This is in response to a Stucky Tentacle prompt on AO3!





	

He was going to die today. 

He took a slow breath inward, trying to let that thought sink in. Tried to get the concept to feel like something, like anything. Perhaps years of “conditioning”—he couldn’t recall what all that entailed, but his gut knew they had been experiences that were far worse than death—had finally numbed him to the idea. Or perhaps it was the normalcy of gearing up for this last mission; suiting up, as usual (except for the lack of weaponry), piling on a plane with uniformed soldiers with faces he almost remembered, listening intently to the briefing of the mission as it was read aloud. 

The engines roared to life, its gargantuan propellers kicking up debris and dust and drowning out the sound of the report, even as the man shouting the orders turned red from yelling. Bucky read the “fuck it” on his lips as he jammed the paper into the pocket of his fatigues and turned around to slide into the seat behind the co-pilot’s. 

That was it. That was all he knew. This was his last mission—the summing up of what he remembered someone calling it, his “glorious sacrificial work to restore mankind to order”. Whatever that meant. He focused on the back of the man’s head, flicking his dry tongue out over parched lips, wondering if maybe—maybe he would read it again, if asked? 

Bucky shook his head to drown out the thought. He was to never ask questions, only to obey the orders given. To ask again would signify that at the very least he had *not* listened intently. Even if the officer took the pity on him and spared him a beating for such insolence, did he really want that to be his legacy? That would be the lasting memory the soldiers around him would have—that the Winter Soldier failed to listen to his own Final Briefing. 

He took a last glance out the dirty window as the blue sky was swallowed by the atmosphere and the darkness of ozone drowned out all light. 

* * * * * 

They were somewhere over Brazil, Bucky guessed. It was only a vague assumption, not a geographical probability so much as an educated guess; lengthy rivers snaked their way through dense foliage that completely enveloped the mass of land. It was night-time already when they set down on an open patch of felled earth and the soldiers piled out. Their hands were shaking. Bucky glanced a second time, and was almost sure he had seen sweat glistening on their brows, under the red veil of the tactical masks. 

Somebody grabbed his arm and pulled him into line beside them. When Bucky looked ahead, he saw a dark-haired woman in ripped jeans and a faded band tee-shirt approaching them. Her eyes narrowed at their leader, and she huffed, “You’re late.” She spoke in a thick accent that Bucky didn’t recognize. “Which one of you is it?” she asked, peaking out over the collection of armed men. 

A sudden jolt from behind threw Bucky forward. He stumbled out over his feet, his arms flying out for balance, and he stopped within inches of the woman. She eyed him skeptically, one ringed finger jutting out to scratch an outline down his jaw before gathering his face in a surprisingly strong grip and forcing his head to the side. 

Bucky let a small growl escape, and one of the men behind him said, “Comply, asset.” 

He swallowed his indignance and clasped his hands behind his back, standing at attention for the far-too-grabby woman, jaw tightly clenched. After a few quizzical grunts (and murmurs in a strange language Bucky could not understand), she released him and stepped back with a nod of approval. “Yes. He will do.” She turned, plucking an ornately twisted staff from the grass beside her, and waved her hand in a “follow-me” gesture, disappearing through the thick brush. 

Bucky swallowed. Something akin to fear stirred deep within his belly as he received another push, this time leading the line of soldiers into the unknown. 

Beyond the brush, a rocky trail formed. It was narrow and hard to see at spots due to the ragged overgrowth of branches that grabbed repeatedly at Bucky’s fatigues, threatening to tear them right off. Parked shortly off the path, a rusty white Jeep lay partially hidden in thick weeds. The woman plucked a basket from the front seat and returned to the trail, nonchalantly tossing the contents on the forest floor. Dozens of small white and yellow flowers scattered everywhere, coating the wet ground. 

Bucky frowned down at them. 

“Step on them,” she ordered. 

He thought about asking why, but he knew better than that. He flexed his jaw and hovered one boot above them, hesitating before marching forward and trampling the delicate petals in his wake.

* * * * * 

There was a clearing where the forest seemed to turn to swamp. It was pitch-black, here. The woman leading them took out a lighter and a rag, fashioning a torch out of the end of her staff. She dipped the lit staff into a stone sconce carved out of rock and suddenly the whole place was aflame with red light. It illuminated ancient stone walls that towered high above their heads, ancient text scrolled exquisitely over the pillars. The floor of the clearing was a type of flat stone, carefully laid out probably centuries ago, cradled by the foliage growing between the cracks and cementing it in place. The distance between pillars widened until they formed a semi-circle, spilling out into a black body of water that swallowed the light’s reflection. 

“Here,” the woman announced, her sandaled feet coming to stand at the center of a raised pillar that was warped and cracked with age. From somewhere deep within a hidden recess, she retrieved a crooked blade that appeared to be made of bone. 

Bucky flexed his metal arm. Maybe this was it. He knew the feel of a knife well; he knew the sudden slick that followed the icy tear through bone and sinew. The sudden intake of air as the body swelled with shock and the pain drove deep into the marrow. It was painful, but not without mercy. Bucky stepped forward on his own, lifting his head to the starless night sky that peaked out over hovering trees, wriggling his hands to his side, working out the last of his nerves. This he could do. This he could almost welcome. 

No more training. No more pain. No more lashes laying open his muscle. No more orders. No more killing. No more bloody drains as the hose washed away the evidence…

Their guide snapped her attention to the man beside Bucky, the general who had read the briefing in the plane. He cleared his throat with a shaky, guttural sound and stepped forward. 

“The tithe?” She asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, sliding a briefcase to her across the altar. She eyed him suspiciously before flicking open both latches and peering inside. “Twenty-three,” He said. “Just as we discussed. 

Her eyes narrowed. “We discussed twenty-three. We agreed on thirty.” 

“Look, lady—“ 

Her brown eyes flew sparks in his direction. 

The general adjusted his attitude, swallowing hard before trying again. “Twenty-three is what we can do for now. I’ll get back to my superiors and see if I can’t get the rest wired to you after…” He slid an uncertain look over at Bucky before slamming his eyes forward. “After the…procedure. Besides, Twenty-three’ll buy you an awful lot of grain.” 

She huffed and eyed the group of soldiers, the hand not holding the knife planted firmly on her hip. “Don’t be insolent. I don’t need food,” she spat. “I need firepower. But very well.” She slid the briefcase closed and deposited it on the ground beside her. “Get him undressed while I begin the ceremony.” 

Bucky’s blood froze in his veins as two of his fellow soldiers approached. He was not completely surprised—not really—as what was about to happen was becoming all-too-clear to him. But he wanted to do it *himself*. The soldier within him struggled with obeying, allowing his arms to go limp and for the men to unbutton and unfold his upper half. But they started for his belt and his righteous anger seething within finally bubbled out and he shoved the roaming hands away. The men gripped on tight, and Bucky heard the familiar shriek of an electric baton powering up (seemingly, their tool of choice when it came to taming the Winter Soldier). 

The general raised his fist, barking, “STOP,” and the men froze in place. “Let ‘im do it if he wants to do it.” 

They backed off and Bucky shot warning glances between both of them as he worked off the last of his garments, kicking his boots off and sliding his pants and boxer-briefs to the ancient stone floor with a huff. 

“Come,” The guide gestured, holding her hand out. Bucky gripped it warily, but her touch was now soft, almost welcoming as she led him to the raised, body-sized stone.

Bucky came to stand at the head of the altar, and after eyeing it for several moments, he still could not think of a graceful, dignified way to climb on. He swept a hand over his mouth before latching his bare toes into the side of the pillar and gripping the ice-cold slab above it. Half-surprised he had found a good grip, he sucked in a deep breath and hoisted himself on. Halfway up, his toes slipped from the smooth stone and he landed in a belly-flop, feet flying over his head, which he assumed must have looked comical despite the serious circumstances. 

The guide let out a light-hearted laugh, and suddenly Bucky’s ears and cheeks were stinging red. “It’s okay,” she assured him. As he found his bearings (and gathered his bruised ego) she turned to gather a thick helping of ferns from the foliage along the edge of the ruins and piled them at the head of the stone. She patted it. “Here.” 

Bucky’s heartbeat was thrumming so loudly in his chest that if the men were laughing, he couldn’t hear it. Her gesture was—kind? There had been innumerous times he had imagined himself dying, and many more times than that in which he had nearly died. This was not one of those scenarios. Not even in the least. 

He obediently slid down, lowering his head to the makeshift pillow and staring up at the black night sky through the flickering light. The slab was cold, but it didn’t bite into Bucky’s muscle and bone as he expected it would. The naked eye would miss that the surface was slightly curved and contoured to his skin, rising in the middle where his spine was, and dipping down to cradle his bare buttocks. Bucky fought the urge to cover his nether-region and shivered, flexing either fist at his sides.

The guide was now seeming to hover over him, basked in the glowing light of the torches, taking on an other-worldly glow. She drew in a quick breath and let it out slowly, her eyes fluttering closed, and Bucky had to blink or else he would have been convinced he had imagined the sparkling blue haze that escaped her nose and mouth. When her eyes opened again, they shone with the same blue stardust, and she began to speak in a language that sounded simultaneously centuries older and more advanced than Bucky had ever heard. 

{M’hedehf Sommesh, flior. Freuy. Qwentra ah soh haflde, deur Yeo’wahhana.}

From the corners of his vision, the bone blade flashed gold, licked by the firelight. He swallowed his last and sudden urge to launch himself upright, even as his superior barked the order to stand down. 

The priestess’ hand stretched out over the far side of Bucky’s face, turning his head into her bosom. Bucky could smell her, now, and the fresh mixture of lavender, cinder and rose calmed his senses. The blade drew down closer, and his eyes fluttered closed. 

This was his death. 

He had done well. 

He had been a good Asset. A true Asset. Always obedient, even to this end. 

She drew the blade across his right shoulder and he hissed, the sudden wetness stinging the flesh but not deep enough to pierce bone. He swallowed hard as the sudden realization hit him—

This was not going to be fast. 

He squeezed his eyes tight even as he felt a small tear leak through and escape down his cheek. He was shaking uncontrollably now, and was shocked within himself to discover that he didn’t give a shit if anyone saw. He waited for the next slice—seemingly forever—and when a second sting didn’t come, he curiously cracked open one eye. 

She was in the midst of hopping down from the altar. She tucked the knife back into its secret pocket and collected her staff and the briefcase, waving modestly at the group of soldiers, who were seemingly as flustered and confused as Bucky was. 

Bucky dared to pick his head up from the fern pillow.

“That’s it?” His superior huffed, saying what they were all thinking. 

“Yeah,” The guide said. “Now you wait.” 

“Wait?,” Bucky murmured, as if drawing out the word would make it make sense. 

“Yes,” she said as she hurried down the path, the way the men had came. “And If you have any rope, I would tie him down.” 

Bucky’s head landed back on the stone, his prayer for a quick dispatch dashed. 

“You heard her,” The General said. There was something akin to nervousness in his voice—it made his orders shaky and rushed, even as the men clamored to comply. 

Ropes would do nothing to restrain the Winter Soldier. That was why his trusty teammates always carried the sting batons and the electrode magnets. They fastened the magnets with relative ease, disabling Bucky’s arm from the shoulder down and he drew out a ragged breath. 

Maybe if he asked, they would have mercy. It wouldn’t take much. Even for a super-solider, any basic hunting knife with a 5-inch blade would do the trick. Sever the carotid and both wrist veins. He could peacefully bleed out. He’d get cold. Take a nap. Fall asleep. 

A steel cable attached itself to the electric loops and wound around the base of the pillar, taking three men pulling at either end to draw it tight. An electrically charged mallet melted the cross-section together in a hiss of heat and light, and the group fell away, leaving Bucky to writhe in place, legs free and flailing. 

* * * * * 

>Presently<

Bucky’s heart is thrumming in his chest, the slab no warmer from the heat of his body than when he first laid down on it. The bundle of ferns under his head flutters as the wind kicks up over the murky water. His fellow soldiers have hidden themselves, it would seem, due to the rustling noises Bucky hears behind him and the words being murmured amongst themselves. 

“This is stupid. I didn’t know any Brass in Hydra still believes in this bullshit.” 

“Why did we have to give it Winter? I mean, he’s our best man.” 

“That’s the whole point, dipshit. You have to sacrifice your best. Otherwise it’s not a sacrifice.” 

(A snort.) “How the fuck is It going to know which is our best? It’s not like It will know the difference. Why the hell couldn’t we feed it Jenston?” 

“Shut up!” Jenston snaps. 

A disturbance in the water, slow and deliberate, catches the corner of Bucky’s vision. He snaps his head, his heart seizing, chest going ice-cold as the ripple touches the edges of the shore. There is a very short gap between the water and the altar—on purpose, Bucky assumes—lessened further by the floor of the temple ruins having crumbled away over time, tumbling into the still body of black water. 

“Shh!” One of the men hisses, the sound followed by that of a fist thumping into the ribs of another. “Something’s coming!” 

Bucky instinctively brings his knees up, covering his most tender of exposed areas, and grits his teeth together, thrashing against the chains. They make a singing sound, the electricity pulsating up his arms and frying every synapse, causing him to collapse back on the stone pillar beneath him. 

“Knock it off, Winter!” the General rasps from somewhere within the trees.

Bucky can practically smell the sweat and tears as the general and his men piss themselves of fright. He is suddenly glad that he is not the only one suffering. Bucky peers through the slits of his wincing eyes at the growing ripples under the water as the flame in the sconce suddenly flares. 

“Fuck this, I am out of here,” one of the men says, and the bushes rattle as his helmet brushes the leaves. 

“Stand down, Gordon!” The General commands in a harsh whisper.

Bucky can feel some sensation returning to his flesh hand. He grips the smooth metal of the electrode wrapped around it, grateful for the familiar (if painful) touch. 

A sudden slap of water sends the men scattering. Pandemonium ensues as Bucky sees—no, it couldn’t be—an enormous snake-like coil emerge from the black water and descend upon the men. They go in all directions, the familiar hum of their weapons charging as they scamper towards higher ground. 

The snake-like trunk comes down with a crash, shuddering the walls of the ancient ruin and snuffing out the single light of the torch. It fizzles and dies as a wall of water crashes into the cove, drenching everything—men, weapons, fire, and all, in one mighty blow. 

One of the men rushes the water—typical fight or flight response from a soldier trained to run towards the battle—only to immediately regret the decision. He squeaks out a desperate yelp before he is dragged under, leaving only a red-masked helmet floating in his place. 

Bucky wrenches his head to the left as another cry startles his ears—one of the men is wrapped in one long blackened coil, his body careening into a pillar, his tactical vest popping off at the hinges as the sconce peg runs him through. The monstrous thing leaves the man dangling like a Christmas decoration. But even he gets off lucky. 

The sound of men disappearing into the brush is followed by dozens—no, hundreds—of the vine-like entities, their length seemingly endless as they rush past the broken stone tiles and into the dense forest beyond. Bones crunch and weapons misfire, all followed by helpless squealing as the men like trapped pigs are slaughtered. 

Then silence.

Bucky is again surrounded by the sound of his own desperate panting, eyes darting in all directions (all but useless in the darkness). The slick slide of the surrounding vines hiss along the floor as they retreat into the water. Bucky sneaks a glance just as the last tendril slips away without so much as a ripple. He sucks in a breath and holds it, taking in the starless sky and the pathetic slice of moon that hangs down from it. It casts a murky purplish glow on the scene, cutting the darkness just enough for him to know that he is completely alone.

As his eyes adjust, the torch embedded in the body of his fellow soldier sputters suddenly to life, re-igniting to a soft blue flicker, the same smoky color that had sparked their guides’ eyes not minutes before. 

A hand descends. Soft. Human. 

Bucky winces. 

The touch to his cheek is velvety-soft and fragrant, the skin coated with microscopic glitter that dances in the pale light. All is silent, now, except for the gentle lapping of the water where the sea-urchin disappeared, and the flutter of human fingers as they run the length of the gaping wound on his collarbone.

Bucky flicks his tongue out over his lips, squeaking out the only word that keeps repeating in his head. “…pl…Please.” It sounds pathetic. And god, does he hate himself in this moment. But it is all he can think to say. What is he begging for? Mercy? A swift death? And why, god, why is he even still breathing? 

“Ssshh,” The voice coos, and even though there’s no sound of footsteps, it seems the person draws closer. Bucky thinks he hears shifting, like heavy feet shuffling along the ruin floor, and feels the warmth of the body drawing closer. 

Bucky’s eyes flutter open, carefully, cautiously …and in the dim light he can barely make out a smiling face. Maybe one of the soldiers made it out? Maybe he is saved? Maybe this is all just one horrible nightmare and he is making things up in his head and suddenly Bucky is wishing he could pinch himself and wake the fuck up…!

The wide thumb sweeps across his cheek bone, wet but warm. The silhouette belongs to a man, probably Bucky’s age—towering above him as he lays spread out on the cursed slab of rock—and he is missing clothes and his skin glitters faintly as if it’s made out of dying embers. He smiles, gently, and this Bucky simply cannot comprehend. 

Before he gets a chance to react t—maybe find out what he wants, who he is—he notices the stranger is transfixed with the electrodes binding Bucky’s wrists. The strange man places a thumb on his lip and bites down as if lost in thought. His hand reaches out suddenly, and Bucky surges backwards with a gasp. (It’s all he can manage—with not quite enough slack on the chain to launch himself off the pillar.) 

The man’s eyebrows arch upward and he raises his hands defensively, fingers gently spread as if he’s trying to signal that he is not a threat. Bucky doesn’t hold his breath. 

The stranger snaps his fingers and a slithering, wet vine creeps along the pillar, inches from Bucky’s head. Bucky lets out an undignified squeak as it reels back and cracks against the electrodes, missing the skin of his wrist by mere centimeters. The ring fizzles and Bucky wrenches his flesh arm free as soon as he hears the crack. It delivers a shock that would fell a lesser man, but Bucky is past that—he is halfway loose and there is a strange man trying to (kill?) him and he is not about to just lay there taking it. 

He rumples himself up, metal arm dangling, still perched atop the stone pillar. He doesn’t need his arm—or any weapon, for that matter—to easily dispatch this stranger if he tries anything. 

Somewhere between panting and hunching himself over like a Neanderthal guarding his last meal, Bucky comes to the sudden realization that the stranger has done nothing to stop his escape. His eyebrows quirked quizzically upward, he stares curiously as the super-soldier continues his death-glare, head cocked to one side. 

“What?!” Bucky barks, his flesh fist raised, and the stranger slithers away. 

slithers

Bucky has to look down. Doesn’t want to look down! Has to. 

Oh god…

The stranger’s body disappears below the navel, the glittering skin giving way to soft, pearlescent scales that disappear into hundreds—millions—of snaking, moving, slithering…

Bucky kicks, aiming at nothing, letting out a scream that would resurrect a dead monk, and the stranger dashes back into the murky water, slipping away until the ripples stop and the lake becomes a black mirror. 

Bucky struggles against his final restraint. It zings and zaps away, still fully alive and activated. “Fuck!,” He squeals. Chest heaving, lungs burning for air, he doesn’t have the time to worry about snake-boy, (if in fact he’s even real!), right now he has to get OUT of here. OUT. NOW.

He reams and wrenches, twists and pulls, and goddamn those doctors for coming up with the ONE GODDAMN THING that he can’t break and then equipping the whole fucking team with them! He hunches up on both feet, wiggling his toes and squaring his hips for leverage, and KICKS---

Knocks himself flat on his belly, one knee scraping clear to the bone on the rough edge of the altar. He lets out a hiss, clapping a hand over the torn flesh as the pain levels his reality.

Suddenly, he almost wishes snake-boy would return. 

He blows out a ragged puff of air and sits, lost in thought as to just *how* he is going to get out of this mess. With his team gone (killed by god-knows-what) and his knee gushing fresh blood, and no deactivating electrode in sight…he is stuck. 

Stuck.

He tosses the ferns back into a rumple, laying down as the cold of the jungle night sets in along his skin. He shivers, drawing his legs up to his belly, dunking his face into the soft leaves with a huff. 

Somewhere in the midst of a very restless sleep, he feels a gentle tug on his arm. “Mhh,” he murmurs, swatting it away with his free hand. Presently, the sensation returns, this time nudging his elbow with firm force and rolling him over onto his back. “Nah,” he groans drowsily, pushing the slithery vine away as it is quickly replaced by another one. 

One thick muscle slithers between his neck and shoulders and conforms to his tired muscles like the most supportive bolster money could buy. It is surprisingly warm and Bucky nuzzles his cheek against it, smacking his lips contentedly as he rolls over into the new, more comfortable position. The muscle flexes underneath him as if adjusting to the weight of his head like a supportive, bulky arm. Another tendril curls along his back, the rubbery nubs of its underbelly latching on and working out the tense kinks of his muscles. 

Bucky sighs, his flesh arm curling around one coil. The vine flicks experimentally around his hand, first curling, then uncurling, moving Bucky’s fingers in tandem. Bucky lets out a sleepy giggle and pulls his hand away, slapping the wriggling branch with a resounding “thwack”. The thing shudders and slides away, down the gentle curve of his spine, coming to rest on his lower hip. 

Bucky’s mouth is next. A thicker, fatter vine makes its way to his sleeping face. The bulbous end seeps with saccharine goo, wriggling against his pouty lips, coating them with the warm, sweet slick. Bucky’s lips part easily, and a moan allows the tendril to slide inside. It pumps out the sweet liquid freely, coating Bucky’s tongue and teeth and he sighs against it. 

In his dreams Bucky takes a cock, big, fat and throbbing. He swallows it whole, past his teeth and his hollowed cheeks, feels the pressure and the pulse as it pushes against his mouth. The pre-cum is seeping, hot and sweet, and Bucky relaxes his throat for more. Coaxing fingers flutter into his hair, sharp nails digging into his scalp in sweet, stinging scratches. “Good boy, Asset. Take it all down.” The man above him lets out a throaty groan, rocking his head back, his adam’s apple bouncing as Bucky obeys, swallowing him in, stretching his throat the way it’s not supposed to go. The stretch is painful, but good; it sets sparks along Bucky’s throat and tingles his senses. A few quick thrusts and the man above him is coming into his mouth, his entire length engorged by his orgasm, feathery-soft balls drawing up tight under Bucky’s chin. The man ruts against his mouth, opening him wide, and Bucky coughs a little as the come trickles down his throat and into his belly. 

Bucky’s eyes slide open, now. He finds his mouth still filled to burst, his jaw sore and flexing as the sweet liquid seeps in and dribbles down the side of his face. He gasps and tries to sit up straight, but heavy moving muscles bolt him to the pillar. He shakes his head, fighting his mouth free, spitting out as much of the goo as he can muster. He clamps his working hand down on one massive coil, the warmth and weight wrapping around him, and is surprised when it moves easily. Underneath is a much smaller tendril which works its way up Bucky’s stomach. He cries out in surprise and does his best to backpedal. He only sends himself backward into the trunk of a massive barb that curls into his spine like a recliner. He swats at the smaller vine—this one is open, with little microscopic teeth that clamp down and leave little red rings as it inches its way up his chest. 

Bucky is panicking now, or at least he thinks he is, because his brain is muddled and he’s pretty sure he can’t feel his legs. The curious little tendril has discovered the forming bud of his right nipple, a forked red tongue flicking out to lick a strip of saliva through the duct. Bucky shivers. His arm is captured by yet another swirling trunk that squeezes his bicep, prevents him from swatting away the small one. He lets out a frustrated whine as the vine latches on, sharp little teeth digging into just the first few layers of skin. 

Bucky uses his elbow as leverage, powering his way through the biggest stalk. It blubbers backward and falls away. Bucky lets out a satisfied grunt and tears the small slug-like vine off his nipple, only to find two more inching forward to take its place. “What the fuck?” Bucky feels pretty much free to absolutely lose his shit—after all, 1) his team is dead 2) he is very much alone in a strange nameless jungle, and 3) HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT THE FUCK!? With his flesh hand, he wriggles the electronic handcuff that currently has his metal arm completely deactivated. The tentacle still wrapped around his bicep seems happy to let him do so, wiggling its tail-end in small, soothing circles up his shoulder-blade. 

The penile-shaped tentacle, is back, however, sputtering its creamy, sticky substance down his chest, to his belly, coating him with slick. 

Oh God no please, Bucky screams mentally. This cannot be how he dies. This cannot be how the legendary ghost story of The Winter Soldier ends. The bulbous vine slithers down to the divot between his hip and groin, sputtering out its sticky liquid. Bucky writhes, his legs kicking freely despite the weight of the tentacles wrapped around them. One of the vines drags itself around his ankle and tightens suddenly, yanking him down, down, down, to the end of the altar. Bucky is now being pulled at both ends, the stretch full and forceful as his lifeless metal arm clangs against the smooth rock. 

He cries out against the weight, frustrated and tired, his head dizzy and drained of fight, probably having something to do with the gooey liquid he drank down. 

What does this thing want? 

Bucky doesn’t really give a shit any more. He just hopes—pleads—prays—it will kill him soon. His metal arm useless, his body taxed and ragged under the influence of the sticky fuid, he shrugs against the wriggling black vines, spent. The sudden sound of rippling water averts his attention, and once again a human-like form edges its way out of the water. His breath catches in his throat, and he is too late to stop the words that escape. “Snake-boy?” 

The answer is a chuckle, dark and gravely, as the form slinks closer. Bucky wrinkles his nose—the smell is musky, dank and weedy. Nothing like the visitor’s from before. A sick feeling of despair and sinks low in his stomach as the figure approaches. 

A clawed hand reaches forward and snags his wavy brown hair, yanking his head back. A growl rumbles up from deep within the creature’s chest. It eyes Bucky like one might size up a ham sandwich, two burning yellow irises narrowing into slits as it follows the lines of his body, determining which corner to bite into first. 

Bucky’s flesh fist connects with the creature’ s chest and it tumbles backward, followed by the slick shriek of tentacles grasping at the stone tile. It lets out an indignant roar and one appendage sails over Bucky’s head, colliding with a deafening “CRACK”, splitting the altar in two. As it crumbles down, Bucky yanks with all his might at the loosening electrical chain that ties him to the pillar. The energy sparks and fizzles as waves from the black water slap against the shore. A few loose stones are dragged into the ebb, and Bucky is quickly backpedaling for solid ground. 

The chain is much looser, now, though still attached to the fastened end of the split rock, and Bucky shuffles backward on his ass as the creature’s muscular vines find their way to his legs, latching on with merciless force, sucking him into the water. 

The thing’s upper torso is human, just like Snake-Boy’s, glistening with gold and red scales amidst the hundreds of tentacles that swirl around him. It towers over Bucky, a grin planted on its Romanesque face, blue tongue flicking out to lick a string of drool across its slender lips. 

A red tendril slips around Bucky’s neck and squeezes the air right out as he claws with his one working hand. The electricity from the wrist-band washes over him in waves, stabbing into his synapses and hissing as it comes into contact with the water. Every jolt plunges deep into his body and his heart flutters and jumps as he is dragged down, down, deep into the murky darkness.  
From somewhere in the distance, Bucky thinks he hears a strangled cry. The beast shudders, its muscular tendons releasing their hold, his lifeless form slipping out, sinking away. 

There is a struggle going on above him, and the muffled sound of slapping water and the slow crush of two solid bodies colliding beneath the waves. 

The last of his breath takes form, slipping between his parted lips as three glistening bubbles. Bucky feels nothing, at last. Death has come. 

At last. 

* * * * * 

The Afterlife smells murky. 

Bucky supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. What did he expect? He is pretty sure they don’t exactly let trained assassins in through the pearly gates with a toss of a halo on their head and a slap on the ass. 

Still, he would have expected to awaken in some sort of white fog, like in the movies. Maybe wearing a robe? His eyes flutter open—yup, still naked—clothes would have been nice. 

He can feel his metal arm, again—his whole arm, right down to the tips of his vibranium fingers, and it hurts. Everything hurts, and he’s still part Machine. He frowns at this thought—even in the Afterlife, he still can’t escape Hydra. He rolls onto his side (and, yep, the flesh arm hurts too). 

He is laying down on some sort of makeshift bed—soft weeds form a sponge-like mattress that is slightly damp but surprisingly soft. Further inspection reveals a patch of grass beneath it, before cutting to a floor of flat stone. A quick survey of his surroundings determines he is in a cavern of sorts. There is a glimmer of light reflecting on the ceiling of the cave, illuminating the letters of a strange language carved into it. 

He jolts upright, sending the top of his head right into the stone ceiling, and yelps. “Fuck!” He touches the back of his head and rubs. There is a little blood. No big deal. 

He crawls to the cave opening and attempts standing up. His legs wobble and he catches the wall for balance, curling his toes in for leverage. Large bruises crisscross around his legs and waist, and the little red rings from the suckers of the small tentacles are still visible. 

Not *in* the afterlife, Bucky deduces. 

He peers outside the mouth of the little cove, surveying a small trail of stones that leads down to a glistening body of water. Unlike the murky darkness of the water by the ruins, this water is clear straight down, layers of ancient rock illuminated below the surface. 

He hops down, following the trail to dip his hands into the clear stream. It is ice-cold and soothing to the touch. He splashes his arms and chest, ignoring the chilly shiver that runs through him. Now if only he could find some pants…

A splashing sound jolts his senses and he scampers back up path, ducking into the cave as the sound draws near. A blond Adonis slips out of the clear pool, naked, muscled and glistening. Bucky’s heart leaps in his chest—thank god!—but he catches himself mid-leap, swallowing the excitement back down, coiling back into the recesses of the cove. The man looks strangely familiar. Bucky’s heart sinks to his knees when he realizes the face is that of the blue-eyed, glittery-skinned sea creature from before. He leans forward just enough to peer out at him and cannot stop himself before murmuring, “Snake-boy?” 

The blond-haired man’s head snaps up. Even with muscular human legs replacing the writhing tentacles, he still looks otherworldly. His oversized muscles are toned and defined, skin glowing and chest heaving. His vision of manliness and prowess is topped off by a wriggling, flopping fish that is clenched between pearly white teeth. He scales the steps, coming face to face with his horrified captive, who has flattened his back against the wall and stares at him with wide, saucer-like eyes. 

He approaches Bucky as if he were a scared badger, tip-toeing cautiously and crouching a foot from him. He spits out the fish, depositing it onto the rocky cave bed, and it smacks around, flailing helplessly, fins dilating as it struggles for breath. 

“The fuck’m I supposed to do with this?,” Bucky mutters aloud. 

As if to answer him, the stranger grabs its tail and gives its head a rough “SMACK” on the floor. Bucky jumps. The fish immediately stops its squirming, going limp in the stranger’s hand. He flashes Bucky a reassuring smile as he bites into the belly of the fish and the blood and meat dribbles down his chin. 

“Jesus Christ!,” Bucky squeals, rolling his knees up to his chest and edging himself as far into the corner as he can. 

The stranger’s eyebrows disappear under his blond bangs and he stuffs the meat into one cheek, biting off another piece and holding the dead fish out towards him. 

Bucky swallows, eyeing the poor, dead creature. His chest heaves from the smell and he covers his mouth with his flesh arm. The stranger’s hopeful expression melts into a look of shame as he levels his aquamarine eyes to the floor. 

A tinge of guilt washes over Bucky. Ignoring the flutter of his gag response against the back of his throat, he reaches out for the fish, his flesh fingers brushing over the Stranger’s. “Sorry.” Bucky quickly retrieves the fish and crouches back into his comfortable corner. 

The blue eyes of the stranger sparkle with delight as Bucky wrinkles his nose, sucks in a breath and bites down. The meat is surprisingly savory and doesn’t taste nearly as bad as it looks. In fact, the fish is almost…good? 

As if reading his mind, the stranger eagerly nods his head. Bucky sniffles out a soft laugh and swallows. He chews on his lip and the lingering salty taste, debating on how one might go about properly thanking a host that obviously doesn’t share one’s language. Bucky settles upon nodding in recognition, head bowed low, and finishes the meal right down to bare bones. 

On the last swallow, he looks up and is surprised to find the stranger gone. He frowns, glancing warily down the narrow opening of the cove. Silence ensues, and Bucky sighs, slumping back on one elbow into the spongey makeshift mattress. Well, there’s little he can do about it now. 

Bucky groans as the room suddenly spins again, pressing his hand to his head as if that would help to stop the whirling. “Dammit…” His free hand slips between his legs and brushes against something hard. The sensation skitters down his spine and he gasps for air even as he dares to glance downward. His erection is painfully stiff, arching upwards towards his belly button. The little red rings of the suckers’ bites are still plainly visible on his thigh, and Bucky scowls. The room levels out eventually, but it does nothing for his involuntary (and frankly, inconvenient) hard-on. He feels the heat growing on his face as he thinks maybe *this* is why the stranger left. It’s probably not every day he offers a guy a fish and said guy gets a stiffy. 

Soft, flickering light fills the room suddenly and Bucky surges forward, bending one leg to partially (ineffectively) hide himself. He straightens up as the Stranger returns, this time carrying a lit torch that he slips into a divot in the wall, one that Bucky hadn’t noticed. 

Bucky flicks his tongue out over his lips and tries to hide his resulting tremor of pleasure. His eyelids flutter closed as he tries to contain himself, but just like that, the Stranger is there, kneeling down in front of him, two fingers lifting Bucky’s chin until their eyes meet. 

Something mercurial swims in the deep pools of the strangers’. His thumb slips into the slit between Bucky’s parted lips and Bucky quivers. 

“S-sorry…” Right now, it is all Bucky can think to say. He knows it sounds stupid and the inadequacy of the word is magnified by the fact that the Stranger almost definitely can’t understand him. He pushes away, but the Stranger inches forward with a grunt, capturing Bucky’s chin again and bringing his lips mere centimeters from Bucky’s. “Look…I uh…” Bucky is panting, now, mostly out of sheer arousal and only partially out of hesitancy. (He doesn’t know this guy! Scratch that…he doesn’t even know if this *is* a *guy*.” 

Pleasure seizes him again as something slithers across his lap. “The hell…?” He glances down to see that the Stranger’s bottom half as completely transformed again into a writhing mass of tendrils. A cry catches in his chest and he twists away. 

“No,” Says the stranger, pleadingly. Two strong vines trail around Bucky’s wrists, holding his hands together in place in front of his chest. 

Bucky’s eyes fly open. “You—you can understand me?” That redness is returning to his face, a mixture of embarrassment and rage. It probably is a good thing his hands are bound right now; Bucky has half a mind to go super-soldier on this guy…er…thing!

The blond nods slowly, his eyes searching Bucky’s. “A…a little.” 

Bucky absentmindedly kicks at the groping tentacles. “You---you can understand….uh….okay. Wh-what’s your name?” 

“Name?” The blue eyes blink, looking up to the ceiling of the cave as if he might find the meaning of the word there. “Hmm….Streff’En. “ He smiles sheepishly. 

“Streff….uhm. Okay. How bout I just call you Steve?” 

“Steeeeve,” the creature tries. “Steeeeeeve. Steve!” 

“Yeah. Sounds good? Okay. Glad you like it. I’m Bucky,” he offers, hoping to speed a rather lengthy explanation along and get himself the hell out of here. 

“Bucky,” The creature named Steve repeats, his grin widening. “Buckyyy….” He practically purrs, leaning forward and crushing Bucky to the spongy bed. 

“Hey—WHOA—Easy there…” 

“But…?” Steve’s eyes flash downward, unashamedly pointing at Bucky’s throbbing erection. Bucky doesn’t know quite why, but he pauses as Steve’s human hand lowers down. The tip of his pointer finger dips into the pink, seeping head of Bucky’s cock and comes up with a thick string of precome attached. 

“F-fuck…” Bucky’s eyelids slide closed as the pressure from the heavy tentacles secure him to the bed. He supposes Snake-Boy is right. Bucky is obviously still hung over on whatever weird goo that other sea-creature made him swallow. Wouldn’t hurt to have a little relief…right? 

Steve smiles secretively, slithering down the bed and out of Bucky’s sight, leaving the wiggling vines to have their way with him. 

Under normal circumstances, Bucky supposes, he wouldn’t allow this. He would use his super-soldier strength and his bionic arm to break free from the tangled mass. But there is nothing ominous about the way he is being touched, right now, the slick-skinned muscle leaving little sucker-marks across his skin as his legs are opened and the nubby ends of the tendrils tickle playfully at his puckered entrance. 

“Mmmmhhh…” He would touch his own nipples, right now, if he could, taking the opportunity of being as high as fuck to enjoy this. A frustrated whine escapes his lips, and as if by reading his mind, two little suckers inch their way up his shivering belly. The first has a tiny mouth and a thin, spit tongue that juts out to lick a stripe of saliva through the duct of his left nipple. Bucky’s head goes back at the sensation, his dick weeping, the slick fluid greedily slurped up by another mouthy tendril. “Ah!” 

His nipples are both pin-sharp, pin and hard and beckoning as the second little sucker finds its mark. An oval mouth opens to reveal dozens of sharp spines that retract as it lowers onto a blooming bud, sucking inward as the little teeth poke into Bucky’s sensitive flesh. Bucky’s mouth hangs open, and that proves all-too-tempting for the thickest tendril yet—a bulbous head and veiny shaft make up its final ten inches and it wriggles against Bucky’s mouth. 

This time, the substance is warm and sweet, like syrup freshly poured over hot buttered pancakes. It flows into his sighing mouth, and Bucky’s mouth closes around it with a whimper, his back going rigid. He bucks against the strong muscles that hold his hips captive. They shudder delightfully in response, opening his thighs wider. 

The pressure of a prodding, stiff tentacle is next. Bucky’s cry is muffled by the cock-like thing in his mouth. It spurts out more of the sweet liquid, soothing his nerves, echoing the sticky wetness now generously coating Bucky’s entrance. 

He whimpers, his fingers desperately curling around themselves. There is nothing he can touch besides his own flesh. His hips are lifted up, as if he weighs nothing, presenting him fully to the thick, sputtering mass of flesh that batters against his tight hole. It presses inward and gains but mere centimeters as a thick wad of fluid pulses its way up the long shaft, finally pumping out of the slit at the end and delivering it into Bucky’s tight little hole. 

Bucky’s ass instinctively clenches. The smaller vines respond quickly, rounding the curve of his ass, pressing gently into the firm mounds, spreading them apart to prepare the way for the thick, veiny vine.  
Suddenly, the thick vine stiffens, shooting a stream of hot goo straight up into Bucky, coating his walls with the white mess, and at last it is slick enough. 

It pushes through. 

“Hmmmh!!!” Bucky’s eyes flash open. The swirling mass of tentacles above him caress his throat, small toothless mouths pull at his hair and the tendrils suckling at each nipple slurp loudly, happily. Bucky’s hips thrust upward, and he finds a warm, wet mouth to sink his throbbing erection into. He dares to look down, and finds a pulsating tube happily devouring his cock, right down to the hilt. 

But these sensations are nothing compared to the pressure and the heat of the hard rod working its way into Bucky’s ass. His breath is shaky at best as the ring of muscle twitches and cramps, trying to find a way to close around the impossible thickness. It doesn’t hurt—the fluid has seen to that. It is plugged up by the cock-like vine that trails a long stream all the way up. It jerks forward suddenly, hitting up towards Bucky’s balls, pounding its bulbous head against Bucky’s prostate. 

Bucky lets out a keening wail. The vine in his mouth slips out, letting the long, strained sound reverberate through the cave walls. Bucky’s lips part, glistening with the white fluid, his hips lifting evermore, shamelessly rutting up into the feeling of the suckling mouth around his dick. “F-fuck….”

The vines trapping his wrists suddenly break free, and Bucky’s hands flutter down, over the tendrils that happily shudder under his fingertips. He slips a finger into the mouth of the tentacle that sucks at his fully-engorged cock, shudders as his finger aligns with the long vein that protrudes from the delicate skin. His cock is covered in slick, but it’s his own this time. 

A jealous tentacle slaps Bucky’s hand away, curling around his balls and lifting everything, squeezing and clamping down and forcing Bucky’s precome out from the base of his dick. Bucky obeys with a whine, his fingers trailing back up, brushing along the fine dusting of hair under his navel. 

He swipes away the drops of fluid that have gathered on his belly, biting down on his lip as he flattens his hand, feeling the bulge of his engorged stomach and the sweet sting of fullness there. 

Suddenly, hands are sweeping out across his knees. Human hands. He looks up to stare into the smiling face of the blond Adonis once again. Bucky opens his mouth, searching for words that won’t come. “No,” Steve cooes, pressing a finger to his lips. Bucky bites at it playfully and Steve stifles a small laugh. 

Bucky is floating, now. His entire weight supported by the muscular vines holding him up. Steve hovers over him like a god…which, Bucky supposes, he could be. Steve’s hips slide further out from the mass of tentacles, thick like the trunk of a redwood tree. Bucky gasps a little when Steve reveals his hardness. An impossibly long, thick cock with a bluish, bulbous head, seeping with precome. 

“St-Steve…” Bucky can’t manage to say any more than that. What more would he need to say, anyway? 

The soothing hands spread out across Bucky’s bulging belly and press down firmly, earning him a tortured whimper. 

“Oh—fuck—Steve…please…”

“Okay,” Steve whispers. One thumb slips down to open him up and a bead of white liquid trickles out. “I cannot pull my tentacle out, you know,” he adds sheepishly.

“Wh-what?”

“You would lose all the juice I have fed you.” 

Bucky’s eyes flash, suddenly concerned. “B-but…you won’t fit…” 

“Ssshhh…” The thumb disappears to the second knuckle, buried into Bucky’s softness and heat. 

Bucky lets out an undignified squeal. 

“I would never to anything to hurt you,” Steve coos, lining his engorged penis up with the throbbing, pulsating tentacle already buried deep inside of Bucky. “You are my treasure.” 

“Treasure..?” 

The word has no time to register before Steve rolls his hips forward with a small thrust, his bluish cock sputtering more white liquid around the puckered hole before pushing inside. 

Bucky’s chin hits his chest as the toothy tendrils happily suck at his sore nipples and shudder with pleasure. The fluid in Bucky’s stomach surges forward, rounding out his belly as he is filled to completion. Steve’s hand steadily presses down, and Bucky wails, as the two cocks wriggle around inside of him, basting his prostate with slick and taking turns shoving themselves against it. 

“Oh, fuck…” Bucky’s cock twitches inside the mouth of the suckling tentacle, his balls drawing up tight as the suckers of the one wrapped around his manhood send sweet little stingers into the skin. 

“Now you shall give me your juice,” Steve says, one hand reaching up to stroke back Bucky’s cinnamon-colored hair. 

“Unngh….” Steve’s cock drives hard against Bucky’s spend, tired hole, some of the backed up fluid squirting out onto the cavern floor. The greedy, cock-shaped tendril pumps in more to replace it, and Bucky lets out a final wail as he comes, stars bursting behind his eyes, crying out and convulsing and pleading incoherently on Steve’s two cocks. 

“You are my treasure,” Steve repeats, like a mantra, as he shoves deeper still, baring his weight down on top of the squirming soldier. “Mine to keep, mine to breed.” 

Bucky chokes out a sob as he rides out the dying orgasm, his spent muscles fluttering around the cocks buried deep inside.

“Gods, yes. I will breed you, Bucky.” Steve clamps a hand down on Bucky’s shoulder, driving him down over his pulsating dick. “As many times a day as you desire, as many times as you like. Whether you desire my human cock, or my tentacle-cock, or my suckers. My toothed tentacles, my constricting vines. Everything. All that I have, it is yours.” 

A final thrust has Steve exploding into him, a hot wave of thick semen popping a bulge in Bucky’s belly even as it spills out of him. The cock-like vine responds in kind, sputtering out the last of its’ liquid as it deflates and retracts. In the faint light of the torch, Steve’s skin glistens with sweat and his skin’s natural ethereal sparkle as his chest heaves and he feeds Bucky the last of his seed. 

They collapse, the tentacles going limp, wrapping them both in warmth and wetness. 

Steve touches Bucky’s flushed cheek, staring into his eyes at the contented flicker that resides in them as they both catch their breath, lost in each other’s gaze and warmed by the dying firelight.


End file.
